


Packing Nonstandard Equipment

by susiecarter



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Alien Biology, Awkward Sexual Situations, Extra Treat, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-27 00:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15674424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: Caution: handle with care. The unexpected and unlooked-for (but not, in the end, unwelcome) complexities of banging Clark Kent.





	Packing Nonstandard Equipment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TKodami](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TKodami/gifts).



> So, uh, I took your xeno prompt about biological differences, and Bruce realizing he's into it, and went to town. :D? This is nothing but weird porn and questionable biology, and I'm so sorry about it. (♥)
> 
> **ETA:** Anyone intrigued by the further possibilities should run-not-walk over to the delightful [Scientific Method](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17366678) (and the lovely introspective Clark POV followup [I See You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17456966)) by SenkoWakimarin!

 

 

Bruce doesn't notice right away.

In his defense, Clark has always been exceptionally distracting, and that hasn't become _less_ true now that they're—something. Now that Clark doesn't just stand too close, smile too much, lower his eyes so Bruce can see nothing but the soft smudge of his eyelashes against his cheek; as if that hadn't been enough. Clark's arsenal has only expanded: he's proven all too willing to tug Bruce in by his tie and lick into his mouth at the least provocation, and it's not a tendency Bruce is much inclined to train him out of.

They're both busy men. They would be even if they weren't superheroes. Crises, disasters, interruptions, are common. Bruce would be more surprised—and more inclined to take note and investigate—a lack thereof. That they haven't managed to progress past the point of biting each other's mouths until their lips sting, Bruce's greedy hands shoved up under Clark's half-unbuttoned shirt, is frustrating but not unexpected.

But even Clark's luck can't last forever. And Bruce realizes that's exactly what it has been on an otherwise unremarkable Tuesday, when he drags Clark a little closer between his thighs, swallowing the sound Clark makes into his mouth, and works three fingers into Clark's waistband, and suddenly Clark has him pinned by the wrist, grip briefly tightening so much that Bruce's fingertips tingle.

"Don't—!"

"Clark," Bruce says carefully, already deliberately relaxing his body, open, disarming. His lips are still buzzing, swollen with kissing, his skin hot and his cock an urgent eager weight between his thighs; but the tone of Clark's voice cut through all that like ice, and Bruce's mind has already clicked back into motion. Hypotheses, explanations, are arraying themselves in his grasp like a hand of cards—most of them ugly in one way or another, but with the way Clark's grabbed him, ugliness seems all too probable—

"Sorry," Clark says, hasty, breathless. He blinks and lets go of Bruce's arm, taking a quick step back, and he holds his hands up palm-out, cautious, as if Bruce were the one who'd startled inexplicably. "Sorry, I, uh—sorry." He swallows, backing away further still, belatedly smoothing his shirt back down. His gaze is flicking around the room, settling everywhere except on Bruce, and a flush is working its way up his throat—not the slow pink heat of arousal, but a blotchy red that looks almost painful. "Sorry," he says again hurriedly. "I have to—there's a—"

No notifications have gone off; none of the Hall's alarms have sounded. But Clark's perceptive capabilities aren't to be sneered at, and if—

If he wants to leave, needs the excuse, far be it from Bruce to stop him.

"Sure," Bruce says, very even, and then in a blur and a rush of air, Clark is gone.

 

 

 

Once he's aware of the issue, even if he can't define it, he does begin by assuming that it's a problem.

To be precise, he begins by assuming that it's a disaster. That he should have lost whatever it was he had with Clark before it even began feels, in retrospect, both inevitable and appropriate. What had he done to deserve it in the first place? Of course he'd been working with nothing but borrowed time.

Except, to his undeniable surprise, Clark comes back. The next time he looks up from the monitors in the Hall late at night and finds Clark giving him an inarguably heated stare, he's bewildered; even as Clark corners him against the desk, broad hand finding the back of his neck and lips settling against the corner of his mouth, he's attempting to conjure up a satisfactory explanation. A last hurrah, for old times' sake? A test, some kind of mind game—

"Bruce," Clark murmurs, and kisses him again, slow and careful. "About last time—I'm sorry."

"Yes, I think you mentioned that," Bruce says mildly.

Clark draws away and bites his lip, and it takes him longer than Bruce would like to look up; but then he does, and nothing about his face, his eyes, throws a flag. "I didn't mean to do that," he says, soft. "Is your arm okay?"

Bruce offers up the wrist in question—it's hardly even bruised, perhaps the faintest yellow shadow. Clark smooths cautious fingertips along it, kisses the bump of it carefully, and god, it's hard to worry too much about it when Bruce had thought this might never happen again and now he can feel Clark's lips against his skin—

He should know better; but his judgment's never been very good when it comes to Clark.

He's just lucky that Clark seems to suffer from the same affliction. Because in the end he doesn't have to do a thing. He's clutching Clark to him, sucking on Clark's tongue and dimly deciding that perhaps he'll just ask Clark about it some other time. They've been kissing long enough that it feels like a moot point anyway—to talk about it now, he'd have to drag his mouth off Clark's long enough to form the words, which doesn't seem likely to happen anytime soon.

And then Clark makes a desperate little noise against his lips. At some point, they twisted themselves around, switched places: Bruce is the one who has Clark pinned back against the desk, but Clark's the one who shoves a thigh between Bruce's and rocks into him hard enough to make even reinforced titanium rattle a little, and right then, Bruce feels something unmistakably strange.

He tenses up reflexively, disconcerted by the sensation. For a moment, Clark hasn't caught up, is still surging close with his hands dug deep into Bruce's hair—but then he goes still, too, and jerks his hips away from Bruce's, withdrawing as intently as he'd been pressing in a moment ago, and whatever else is going on here, Bruce doesn't want that.

"Clark," he says quickly, evenly, and doesn't move his hands—one flattened against the small of Clark's back, the other over one hip and just starting to sneak its way up under Clark's shirt from his waistband. "Clark, wait."

"Sorry," Clark is saying again, already. He's squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing hard. "Sorry, it's—I'll—I can get it all back under control in a second—"

"Get what under control?" Bruce says.

He keeps his voice calm, unstressed, and doesn't let go. Clark's gone that awful uncomfortable red again, up his throat and across his cheeks, and he's quiet for a long moment, shoulders up around his ears, looking like he'd rather run away than answer.

And for him, it would be the easiest thing in the world. Bruce's grip alone is hardly capable of keeping him where he is.

But he doesn't go anywhere. He bites his lip and makes himself meet Bruce's eyes, one quick nervous flicker, and then he rubs the back of one hand against his mouth and sighs a little through his nose. "You're right. I should have told you sooner. I should have—shown you."

And all at once he's reaching down, unbuckling the belt at his waist and sliding it free. Bruce can't help but raise an eyebrow and aim a gentle leer at Clark, and when Clark looks up and sees it, he smiles—but it's small, unsteady in a way Bruce doesn't like.

Clark catches the waist of his jeans, his briefs, together in his hands, and Bruce isn't expecting him to be so quick about it. After all the time it's taken them to get this far, and the way Clark had panicked when Bruce tried to do the same thing, Bruce had anticipated that he might need a minute to work up to it; perhaps a little coaxing, some reassurance.

But instead Clark just sucks in a breath and then tugs it all down around his thighs, catching at the back against the line of the desk, just under his ass.

For a long moment, Bruce isn't sure exactly what he's meant to be seeing. Clark looks—essentially normal, as best he can tell. Impressive, certainly, but Bruce had already known that; from certain angles, Superman's suit leaves very little to the imagination, and Batman gets to survey Superman from more angles than most people.

Smooth, Bruce registers, which he hadn't necessarily been expecting given that Clark allows his chest hair entirely free rein. And perhaps Clark's cock is unusually veiny, practically ridged along the length. But that isn't exactly existentially disturbing.

Bruce thinks back to what he'd felt against him, that brief but unmistakable sensation of movement, of give. He glances down again, but he can't see any discoloration; Clark's cock is red, flushed hard, shading toward purple at the straining head, nothing obviously amiss. The shape, too, appears entirely within a standard deviation of what Bruce would deem average—and of course Bruce Wayne's life choices guarantee that he's working off a generous sample size.

He's trying to choose a tack, to decide whether it would be better to stay calm and clinical or to turn a request for a more extensive examination into something that could be said with a wink on the end. And then Clark meets his eyes, looking like he's not so much seeing Bruce as a firing squad, and says quietly, "I, um. I don't have a dick."

Bruce looks at him, and then down at the visible evidence to the contrary, and then at him.

"No, I—" Clark revises hurriedly, flushing redder still. "Not—I mean, I don't have _a_ dick."

Bruce blinks.

"I've got, uh." Clark stops and swallows once, twice. "I can keep it all like this most of the time. It feels about right, usually, and it looks okay from a few feet away. It's not a problem." He bites his lip. "It's just when I'm—you make me so—and I have to concentrate, or they, um," and Bruce stares down, conscious of a sudden crystalline awareness that the expression on his face cannot be allowed to deviate from careful and precise neutrality, as Clark's cock—changes.

Comes apart, to be more precise. Bruce understands immediately what must have happened, where the unnerving squishing sensation against his thigh had come from: because Clark does, indeed, not have a cock as such. He has what Bruce can only characterize as a lengthy and generous collection of—of fleshy tubules, or perhaps tendrils. Independently mobile, judging by the way they're bunching and stretching, twisting against each other under Bruce's gaze; the same color as Clark's skin, still, and most probably warm to the touch, blood circulating in a manner likely similar to other extremities, distinctly redder at the ends. And when Clark isn't forcing them to press themselves together and coil up into what in retrospect was a remarkably good impression of a cock and balls, the way they're anchored to his pelvis is much more disconcerting: they extend further to either side than Bruce had realized, up toward his hips, distinctly higher than a human penis; and down along the front of his pubic bone, filling the space between his thighs—

"Sorry," Clark's saying, and Bruce manages somehow to drag his gaze up, to observe that Clark's cheeks aren't red anymore but rather rapidly draining of color, that he's looking off to one side, eyes hidden. "Sorry. I know it's kind of disgusting."

It's not, Bruce decides immediately. And the apologies are irrational. If anyone's at fault in any way here, it's Bruce himself. He'd assumed that Clark simply couldn't have blended in as well as he had for so long if he possessed any external exobiological features of note. Clearly, that had been both irresponsible and shortsighted.

"It doesn't have to be a problem, I promise. I can still suck you off, or whatever else you want. I just, um, I might need to keep my pants on—"

"Why?" Bruce says, absent, tilting his head.

"Because if we're—I don't think I'll be able to focus enough to keep them still," Clark confesses, "if I've got your cock in my mouth. Bruce, are you—what are you—"

"I don't see why that should matter," Bruce murmurs, and reaches for them.

Clark pressed himself back against the edge of the desk the moment Bruce froze, earlier, and he hasn't moved to close so much as an inch of distance from Bruce since. He's shoved himself about as far away as he can get without actually climbing onto the table, in point of fact.

But in the fine tradition of aroused lifeforms of all kinds, his body betrays him: the—whatever they are—are just as eager for this as Bruce, filling his hand immediately, spilling between his fingers; winding themselves around his palm, his knuckles, and groping their way toward his wrist. They _are_ warm to the touch—hot, almost as hot as a hard cock would be, and Bruce is starting to think that half the reason they'd been able to present such a good likeness of one under Clark's control is that they really aren't so different, the bloodflow heavy and the skin the same texture, thin and delicate and flushing increasingly dark with arousal.

Perhaps the most unusual thing about them is the gentle pressure they exert, twining and coiling and squeezing. There's a rhythmic element to it, pulsing—and maybe that's precisely the right word, the whole pile of them in his grip at once transferring nothing more or less than Clark's heartbeat, with the blood circulation through them as high as it clearly is right now.

"Oh—oh, fuck, _Bruce_ —"

Clark sounds dazed, surprised, gasping Bruce's name, and Bruce tightens his hand a little, skims his thumb along the writhing width of half a dozen of them at once and listens to Clark's next breath catch, stuttered, in the back of his throat.

"—you, you, uh, are you sure you want to—they can be a little—"

"Oh, I think we're getting along just fine so far," Bruce murmurs against the line of Clark's jaw, and then he takes Clark's chin in his free hand and tips their mouths together.

And Christ, it's good like this; it's so much better. Matching the press of his tongue into Clark's mouth with his grasp on Clark's—on Clark, drawing it out, biting Clark's lip at the same moment he rubs his fingertips along the shuddering tips of a handful of the things and tasting the helpless breathless noise Clark makes.

He gets a little carried away, as he so often does where Clark's concerned—because as glad as he is that their shared horizons have expanded, there's still nothing in the world like pressing Clark backward into a desk and just fucking making out with him for half an hour. And the moment Bruce realizes both of his hands are on Clark's wrists, pressing Clark's hands down into the surface of the desk, is also the moment he realizes that the pressure outlining Bruce's cock through his pants isn't—can't possibly be, logistically—Clark's fingers.

He breaks away with a gasp, squeezing his eyes shut, and he's not sure he's ever been this hard in his _life_. He can _feel_ them, now that he's paying attention; grabbing at him, greedy, pressing the cloth of his slacks against his cock and grasping at the shape of it, the highest of them groping their way clumsily over his waistband to dip down and brush the slick wet head of it—because Christ, that's the elastic of his briefs snagged underneath, they—they shoved it down—

He's getting a handjob from Clark's dick. Clark's _dicks_. Christ alive.

"Sorry," Clark's murmuring against Bruce's throat; but this time, Bruce thinks dimly, he doesn't really sound like he means it.

And then it's not just the things but one of Clark's hands at Bruce's hips. He undoes Bruce's belt with quick efficient jerks and then doesn't even pull it free, just shoves the ends of the buckle out of his way and unzips Bruce's fly. And all of him appears to be on the same page, because a half-second later the first curious tendril is wrapping itself happily just under the head of Bruce's cock, squeezing a little, tentative.

Bruce makes a sound he probably ought to be embarrassed about, and Clark sucks in a sharp breath in his ear and then suddenly it's more of them, all of them, smooth against Bruce's hot damp skin, tips skimming for purchase as they wind themselves around him, groping and stroking and fucking everywhere. There's—Bruce has always thought of himself as reasonably sized, not enormous but of decent girth, plenty to work with; but there's not enough _room_ for them all to grip him, though they're doing their damnedest. Hungry for him, unrestrained, the ones that have been squeezed out of any kind of position to get hold of Bruce's cock are—are finding other places to go, wrapping as far around his thighs as they can reach, curling around his balls, and the tips of two of them, three, six, are sliding back further still, into the crease of his ass—

"Jesus," Clark says, hushed, wondering, somewhere really far away. "You're actually into this. God, Bruce, I didn't think you'd—I had no idea that you'd—"

_Neither did I_ , Bruce wants to say, but he can't hang onto the thought long enough, can't muster the will to make his mouth do anything except open for the thumb Clark's pressing into it.

Bruce likes sex fine. Which is convenient, considering the expectations that governed Bruce Wayne's behavior when he was younger. He's had a lot of it, a lot of different ways, and he has determined, with the precision he tries to apply wherever there's uncertainty to eliminate, what he prefers. What he enjoys; what doesn't particularly appeal to him but can be accomplished with minimal effort; what he dislikes but has practiced doing anyway in order to ensure he's capable of achieving the desired results when necessary, in much the same way that completing a patrol while injured isn't enjoyable but is required, and therefore will be endured.

But there's no category that encompasses this: the sensation of a bundle of soft-skinned tendrils, the width of three fingers but infinitely more flexible, working their way inexorably inside of him—half a dozen more sneaking along beside them to tease at his rim, eight or ten more squeezing and groping along his inner thighs, his balls, and more than he can count still working over his cock, wrapped tight and hot around him, _pulsing_ like that. And knowing that it's—that all of it is Clark, that Clark's the one overwhelming him like this, that it's—

That it's safe to allow himself to be overwhelmed.

He keeps his eyes screwed shut and closes his lips around Clark's thumb, licks the pad and the knuckle, swirls his tongue around it; a poor imitation of what Clark's doing to him down there, but Clark doesn't seem to have any complaints. Bruce realizes belatedly that he's making sounds in his throat, reedy and desperate, hands clutching at Clark's back, shuddering against Clark desperately—and all Clark does is hang onto him, strong grip steady at the back of his neck, and let him fall apart. When Clark pulls his thumb away at last, the next thing he does is drag Bruce in and kiss him, hard, deep, greedy and enclosing, and he's still got one hand at the nape of Bruce's neck, thumb stroking the line of Bruce's throat, but the other is—

Bruce hadn't been prepared for it. As if the rest weren't enough, Clark sliding that hand to Bruce's ass could have done it. But Clark doesn't stop there. He's shoving Bruce's slacks down to his thighs at last and skimming curious fingertips along—along the tendrils, feeling where they're pressing into Bruce; _rubbing_ , Christ, and then the tip of that damp thumb presses in alongside them and Bruce can't hold on one single moment longer.

He jerks and tenses and comes, right into the mass of them, and the pulsing heat of them around him is—it feels like it takes absurdly long, forever, aftershocks coaxed along by the rhythmic writhing of them almost into whole new peaks, the high bright crescendo taking its sweet time in fading out at last into echoes. By the time it's over he feels wrung out, leaning into Clark and gasping against his throat, and Clark's skimming a hand through his hair, patient, murmuring quiet reassuring things against Bruce's temple.

Finally it's too much, the overstimulation getting genuinely unpleasant—and Clark must be paying close attention, Superman's senses, because Bruce has barely grimaced before the tendrils are all carefully retreating. He leans up and catches Clark's mouth, and for at least ten minutes they just kiss, soft and intent, until Bruce's legs have steadied a little under him.

And as fun as that was, it didn't actually yield all that many meaningful observations. Bruce frowns a little into the kiss, thoughtful, and drops a hand to Clark's waist, lower. Did Clark even orgasm? _Does_ Clark orgasm? Surely there must be some roughly equivalent process of—of release; even plants reach a point where seeds have matured and are distributed, typically. Unless, of course, these structures aren't reproductively oriented in the first place. Maybe he's just been giving Clark a really nice Kryptonian foot massage—

But at the first brush of his fingertips against them, the foot massage hypothesis goes out the window: Clark tenses up, sucking in a sharp breath against Bruce's lips, and when Bruce eases away to get a good look at him, it's—his eyes are heavy-lidded, his chest heaving, a hot steady pink settled into his cheeks. He's licking his lips even as Bruce watches, once and then again, and then he swallows and says unsteadily, "You don't have to."

"No," Bruce agrees. "I don't," and he keeps his hand right where it is, spreads it wide and gathers as many of the things in his grip as he can and gives them one long firm stroke with his thumb.

They shudder and press themselves eagerly into his palm, and Clark chokes on a groan and rolls his hips and then gasps out, "No, I—seriously, Bruce. I don't even know what they—whether they—"

"Well, let's figure it out," Bruce suggests in a murmur against Clark's jaw. "Clark, I'm not arguing with you. You're right: I don't have to. Let me."

Clark drags in a shaky breath, and doesn't say anything.

"Let me," Bruce says again. "I want to. Indulge me. Please."

"Oh, jesus," Clark mutters, eyes falling shut, head tipping back, as Bruce tries something else with his thumb that seems to work out pretty well. "Oh, jesus, Bruce—"

"Please," Bruce whispers, and Clark winds an arm around his back and goes pliant against the desk, and does let him after all.

It doesn't take as long as Bruce might have expected; perhaps the way Clark was working him over, the tendrils that had clutched his cock and snaked into his ass and pressed him open, hadn't been motivated entirely by Clark's generosity and altruism. They don't all fit into one of Bruce's hands, or even both—but they do their best, squirming and squeezing and twining around each other as Bruce grips them and rubs the red, sensitive ends across his palm.

And it won't be this time, but oh, Bruce can't help but consider the possibilities. If they won't fit in his hands, they won't fit in his mouth; but he suspects they'd be just as willing to try it as he is. The thought of them gripping his tongue with all the slick heat that's wrapped around his fingers right now—the way they'd push for the back of his throat and press against the corners of his lips—and the ones that didn't fit, the way they'd probably end up feeling along the lines of his face, his cheeks, blind and greedy, while he knelt there—

Clark's hundred dicks grabbing him by the head and not letting go should be so much more disturbing a thought than it is. Christ.

He swallows hard and makes himself focus, leans in to bite at Clark's collarbone the way he already knows Clark likes, and god, the noises Clark's making are _obscene_. He grips a little harder, feeling the soft fleshy way the things compress when he does—and when he'd been expecting your average hard cock, that sensation had been downright bizarre, but now he's fascinated by it.

And then, as if to give him a new phenomenon to consider, they start to swell in his hands. From the bases of them up along their lengths, he decides after a moment, and there is something undeniably sexual about the effect, thin skin going thinner still, delicate and taut, and almost too hot to hold.

"Does that mean you're close?" he says against the side of Clark's throat, intrigued—and then he realizes all at once that there's no point in waiting for an answer. Clark is gone, lost, the whole long line of his body tense and shivering, making thin helpless sounds in his throat. On a whim, Bruce tightens his hands and strokes everything he can reach just a little more firmly, and is startled by a sudden spasmodic ripple working its way through them, and then there's an odd soft sound—

He blinks into the pale cloud drifting in the air and then looks down at himself, patches of something settled in starbursts across him—him, his hands, Clark's chest, like someone just threw flour on them.

"Spores," he murmurs thoughtfully. "Huh."

Clark's still catching his breath, an arm thrown across his face; his other elbow is the only thing holding him up off the surface of the desk, his whole body limp and sated. But when he does move that arm, he's blinking up at the ceiling, and his eyes are wide. "That's—that's never happened before," he tells the ceiling dazedly. "Even when I do it, that's—that was—what was that?"

And Bruce almost wants to laugh at him, his sweet bewildered face, the spores that his—his hundred prehensile tubular _mushroom dicks_ have just spat out all over both of them, every ridiculous thing about this moment. But instead the only thing he can think is what a terrifying and beautiful place he himself had been, not twenty minutes ago, the place where Clark is now: the place where he'd finally been allowed to lose every scrap of the control he'd so carefully cultivated, where he could let himself, because at last it was all right for someone to see him do it.

"I'm sure I don't know," he says instead, low, and leans in over Clark to brush a kiss across his cheek. "But the nature of scientific discovery demands," and he brushes a kiss over the other, "that we endeavor to determine," and he trails one long sweeping kiss along the angle of Clark's jaw, "whether the results we observed can be replicated."

And Clark blinks once, twice, and then starts to smile, slow and impossibly warm. "Is that so," he says, and it doesn't sound much like a question.

"Absolutely," Bruce answers anyway. "Iteration is key," and Clark pulls him down even though he's already laughing against Bruce's mouth, much too hard to kiss him properly.

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Scientific Method](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17366678) by [SenkoWakimarin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin)




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